


Fever View

by CravenWyvern



Category: Knock-Knock (Video Game)
Genre: Agender Character, Gen, The Guests are mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 01:27:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9411335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: The Lodger thinks about the work they do everyday, who reads it, and why.





	

It had not been a bland day. It had not been dragging, had not been boring, dull, or dusty, had not been a blank emptiness of waiting, waiting, waiting, because they had accomplished a great many things. Goals were met today, pages scrawled over with notes upon notes upon notes, and the third generation Lodger had finished many tasks and activities that needed to be finished today. Oh, there was more to do, more on the way, but todays daylight hours had been a steady flow of work, work, work, and they did indeed complete what they wanted to complete.

Today had not been bland in the slightest, had been a success instead, major strides to the finish line.

And that, that right there, was the problem. What, or where, was the finish line?

Not something thought about often, they knew that, and that was not because of cobwebs in their head! No, definitely not, it was more because such thoughts could evoke more complicated, unknown questions that would lead into forests they had no right to be wandering into, not because they did not have the mental strength to actually think it up in the first place! Trudging into territories of a blank nature, to not know where to set ones feet and to get so, so easily lost in skewers of idea and belief, that was dangerous. Nervous energy made such expeditions even worse.

But it was a nagging puff, a trail that wiggled loosely on the outskirts and they could only ignore that for so long. Why indeed did they do all this, everyday, every week, every month, every year?

Another anxious settlement, a twinge on the corners, but now was not the time to shy away. They had time to do this, the house quiet and settled and at rest, work finished and waiting for the next day. The kitchen was here today, barren and dusty but home to nostalgic half memories, and the chair was not broken like yesterdays chair, so they actually felt comfortable for once. The cold would be a bother, light shivers becoming interruptions, but the afternoon sun flooded the old room and they felt...remembered again. Breath in their chest was a reminder, a conscious action to put air into lungs and then expel, a gentle shift of dusty, stagnant air, and it was rather nice here, for just a moment of piece and quiet.

But they had to stay on track, not sit and forget and thus ignore reoccurring thoughts. The big question and main focus was the ‘why’ part. Why do all this? Why continue to write down all of it, a chronicle of every days schematics, if there was no one to look at it? Dusty pages, dusty rhymes, dusty mind, all together now and they had nothing to break the ice of the world, a sealing in wax and stone to live forever. Who would take time and spend it on The Lodgers works?

Well, they would themselves. It was an organized mess of information, to be read and reread over and over, to remember and forget and refresh once more, because such statistics were crucial to…to…

Well, crucial to someone or something. Important enough, and the cleanliness of the disorganized flow was a breath of fresh air, something figurative because literal fresh air would stir up the dust and they'd inhale too much and then another few days of sickness, of ill begging and tired squabbling, because an unhealthy body would not stop previous plans and the nights would be tedious indeed if they were unwell.

Was that a piece of the ‘why’, then? A little obscure, admittedly, but blindingly obvious, of course. If they had been alone, then yes, they'd be the only ones to ever know of their own work, but The Lodger’s house was not only home to them; other things, lives of the forest, politely invited in as guests, and they were sure that the notes were read by those things, because most of the time the morning revealed meddled rooms, messy and searched, paper on the ground or nailed to the walls and sometimes even stuck to the ceiling. Compliments, of course, nothing less than a positive critique, because The Lodger wrote true fact, wrote it well, of numbers and letters and bars and graphs, all categorized in nice, neat rows, clean and very, very real.

All about the forest, of environment and biology and flora and fauna and atmosphere, all about the house, on structure integrity and numbered furniture pieces and the number of windows and the ingredients of paints and the ages of every inanimate object residing here. It was all there, all very important and very real, and The Lodger was dutiful, noted slight changes, new additions, new reductions, anything that evolved and became something other than the original. Sometimes these were rather sporadic, unpredictable and disliked, not at all flavorful or correct in anyway, and the temptation was there, to not record it down, to ignore it. But once more, The Lodger was very dutiful, loyal to an age old cause of some sort, and they did scribble anything and everything down. 

Pettiness was there, however, but they did not feel ashamed for hiding those papers away. Possibly caused by human error, was their belief, because such drastic changes that were returned to average the following day could not be true. Such things did not fit into the world, could not fit into the world, were never meant to fit anyway.

The new stars as of late fit into this category, loyally printed onto protected paper, and then hidden away, under a bed or desk or table or chair or rug. Never a blanket, however, nor under piles of leaves.

Clacking worn slippers onto tiled floor for a moment, the sound a sharp and a quick repeated pattern, The Lodger noted the dirtiness that had crept in recently. Messy, was what it meant, someone forgot to clean up after themselves, left a trail of bare footprints, mud encrusted and dropping tiny yellowed leaves everywhere.

And who had done it? They had, of course. Slight slip at some point, gotten lost awhile back maybe, they couldn't remember now, and anyway this was new flooring. The kitchen yesterday had a rug, something big, something dully colored, they remembered it in their childhood, trailing fingers through its frayed strings, listening to the houses mumbles and mutters, but that was an old memory, down an old path. Back then, they had no work, no pages to fill, and what had that meant?

No purpose, but what purpose does a child have but to grow up and thus be enabled to become a worker, a contribution to the grand scheme of things? 

And a worker they were, of course, very important, and someday someone equally as important will be given this information, and that was reward enough, wasn’t it, to know this future and just be obliged to record and be patient? Such a success, but not complete yet. There was much to be done, days ahead that needed to be remembered and used for a greater purpose.

But right now…

Dusk was approaching, night to follow soon after. Standing up, creaking in tune with the houses comments, The Lodger started one more round of the house. Quick checkups, of course, nothing major, because they didn’t get to decide the course of the night, not this time around, maybe later on they can decide the game again, if given the option, but it has been awhile, hasn’t it? Always someone else's turn, never theirs, not anymore.

But they were not a child, they were not to be pampered with such decisions, and the years then have to be repaid anyway. The Lodger has taken a lot of time from someone else, it was fair to let that time rewind again, wasn’t it? 

A few more locks, a few more flickers, save up on electricity, who knew when the generator was to reach its end, one had to be careful and mindful. The sound of someone upstairs, a pitter of feet and sudden thud of a door slamming, involvement before the starting line, but appreciated nonetheless. Now, The Lodger didn’t have to make their slow, distracted way to the second story to get it prepared; a kindness they were very grateful for. As host, they should be taking care of everything, but some things were beyond what they could do nowadays. 

Another door closed, rapped on thrice for a confirmation, and something rolling about was satisfactory enough. Nodding for a moment, and then rubbing their eyes tiredly for a moment, a brief expression of pain flashing over them, The Lodger started to make their way to their own bed, much different from the rented ones which were open for all. Theirs was special, a few memories and comforts here and there, and that was okay; it was a reminder of something, of better and happier thoughts. Not any spoiling, just factors of before to act as motivators, that was acknowledged enough.

The front door was right there, the window covered nicely, a towel pushed against the crack in the door to stop the cold current from entering, and the table was neat, only a few pencils scattered here or there. Everything was cared for, pieced together and strung up perfectly, so it was only a last, easy exertion to grab the diary and place underneath their pillow. A way for the dreams to seep into reality, they had been told once, long ago, and the reliance on such fact kept the practice alive. Wasting time on sleep was reluctant, but if it was allowed, then The Lodger would most definitely make subconscious thought more focused on living work than wasteful fantasies.

A few hours, no more, no less. It was the way of things, something appreciated and waited most patiently on, no trouble there. The cold of the house could not get through the layers of a blanketed bed, and for a short while The Lodger would rest, comfortable and easy.

Later on, when the ticking of the clock slowed and it was of deep darkness, the voided unknown of nighttime, the games would begin.


End file.
